The Beginning is The End is The Beginning
by TheEnigmaticStranger
Summary: Reflections of the Capital Wasteland's unlikely hero and her eventual  and equally unlikely  friendship turned romance. Will contain violence, sex, language... all the good stuff.
1. Prologue

**Prior** to my conception, my parents were filled with great ambition for the future. I believe it was Fate's ironic sense of humor that condemned them – a hope as potent as theirs was inevitably destined to consummate with tragedy. The world, I've found, tends to work that way; the good are punished and the wicked are rewarded. I used to weep over the injustice of this truth, but I understand now why it is so. Faith cannot exist without hardship. Wealth cannot exist without poverty. Love, without hate, happiness without sadness; how could we appreciate what we do not know the reverse of? I have never seen the earth in its former glory, and for that I am glad – its ruin would devastate me far more if I had something to compare it to.

My mother died from the effort of bringing me into this world, and not even her sacrifice could keep me safe. I had been hanged, inside the womb, by my own umbilical cord – the delivery was complicated and it took my father and his assistants precious minutes to unravel my noose and resurrect my limp body. Just as life slipped inside me, it drained from my mother. Balance. My father gained a daughter and lost his wife. He was handed a new future, coated in placenta and grief, while his past was taken away. I can imagine him altering between making sure I was cleaned and warm while desperately tending to my dying mother – he says I squalled violently then, furious at the existence that happened upon me so suddenly. My screams were music; they meant life.

Maybe I was crying for the both of us. Father worked hard in his futile attempts to bring her back – only I seemed to understand our loss. Or, maybe my tears were selfish. Maybe I wept because I realized I was damaged; my left brain suffered during the strangulation and consequently, the right side of my body would be weaker for the rest of my life. I did not produce enough melanin. Soon, we would discover I had epilepsy; that I would rarely speak, first due to physical impairment and then on my own will. That as much as I loved my father, I could never express it the way he craved for – I was nothing like my vivacious, affectionate mother. I was Omega, the end of their happiness, the end of their chapter together.

Omega Grey, the quiet child who limped through the creaking halls of Vault 101, devoid of all color save for pale blue eyes – they called me 'Ghost' behind my back, all but Amata, a friend who was eager to learn about albinism, to learn about me. She had the patience for my succinct explanations, often written on paper, and she accepted me unconditionally, something that always baffled me. I truly represented all the terrible things that could happen to one person – not just myself, but my father as well. Naturally, in the animal kingdom, I would have died within days. Someone as crippled as I am has no chance of surviving in the wasteland – that is why, I learned much later, James Arthur Grey abandoned his scientific pursuits and retreated to the shelter of an underground vault. He protected me, educated me and loved me fiercely. He gave his life to spare mine, just like my mother. So when it came time to repay him the favor, to give up part of myself and risk everything – I didn't think twice.

This is my story.

* * *

Trying a different technique, using first person. Just like my other Fallout story, I'm altering some of the facts for the sake of narration and character development.

Reviews, messages or any form of feedback is always welcome. If anybody has an idea or a suggestion, run it by me. And in case anybody is interested, I'll provide a link of my actual Fallout character on my profile so you can see what she looks like - I'm a visual person myself, so I like to see who I'm imagining in my head.

First chapter will be up soon!


	2. Sinking to the Top

Firstly, huge thanks to Shadow Ocelot for being my beta-fish! Hearts and cupcakes and sexy ghouls for her. Secondly... phew. I have so many ideas for this story and I just want to write and write and write but when I sit down, I get overwhelmed by it and I don't even know where to start. I hope I did an okay job keeping things realistic and not melodramatic (Teufelszeug, I completely share your thoughts, and I hope you find this chapter in balance) and one quick note before you read: I'm altering some details of Fallout 3's story line, nothing major, yet at least, so if you find discretions between the game and my fic that you don't like or disagree with, send me a message. I'll be happy to either explain them or look at it and be like, "Hells bells, you're right!" and edit it. There's also the chance that I just fudged a detail because I'm retarded that way, but hopefully my super awesome beta fish lady will catch those boo-boos.

PS. ERROR TWO CAN KISS MY SWEET ASS.

* * *

**Of **all the silly things to find comfort in, I chose Butch's leather jacket.

If you knew who Butch was, you'd understand the irony of my choice. I hated Butch, and I hated his friends. They were driven purely by the Y chromosome, with nothing better to do than hound what they seemed to think were the only two young women of Vault 101 – Amata and myself. It still shocks me to this day that I aided Butch DeLoria in his hour of need; mainly because that same hour was _my_ emergency, too. Somehow in the time span of only thirty minutes, I was both a hero and a villain all at once. My crime was simply being my father's child. My act of selflessness had saved a woman who would soon succumb to liver failure days later. Does any of it make sense to _you?_

I'd love to tell you my escape from the vault was a glorious thing, but it wasn't. I ascended from one hell to another. None of the numerous books I'd read could have prepared me for my first steps topside. After nearly twenty years of the cool, sterile vault lights my first real exposure to UV rays temporarily blinded me. Until then I had never even seen the sun, but it was like I was walking right into it; because of my pigment condition I am extremely photosensitive. I stumbled over the rocks and dirt like a newborn deathclaw, helpless and completely unaware of how lethal I might one day become." In a way, my ejection from the vault was very similar to my birth. Defenseless and unprepared, I was spat out of a safe-haven, the womb, and expected to die. This time, however, there was nothing to asphyxiate me but my own racking sobs. I must have spent a good deal of time curled up in the dust, crying, until my vision came back to me in grainy black spots.

How I got from point A to point B, I'm not entirely sure. It was surreal and dream-like from what I remember. I floated towards Megaton with the wind, like a seed leaf riding the breeze, swept away from my roots and deposited at random where I would plant myself and grow.

In reality, I was dragged to the nearest civilization by my own stubborn will and a traveling merchant's mercy. I remember very little before waking up in the clinic. I believe, however, it went something like this:

"_Welcome to Megaton!"_

"_..."_

"_The quiet type, eh?"_

"_..."_

"_Oh, god. I hope you aren't one of those psychotic quiet types..."_

And then I must have passed out, because the rest is dim.

When I rejoined the land of the living, I was instantly aware of a fire tearing apart the skin of my face. I went to claw at it and the pain grew tenfold. I screamed and a dark-skinned man – a different one, with no hat – ran inside the room immediately, brandishing a stimpak. I was relieved to recognize _something_ in the nightmare I'd entered, but I still felt vulnerable and frightened. The man wore a lab coat, similar to my father's, and I relaxed in small increments as he explained to me I'd been terribly sunburnt and dehydrated, but he'd seen worse and I was fine. I certainly didn't _feel_ fine. I guess he must have seen the terror in my eyes because he softened and smoothed back my long white hair, administering painkiller into my bloodstream.

Through the haze of delirium, I thought to ask the question that plunged and burst in my eardrums along with the beating of my heart. My voice sounded awkward in my parched throat, which was unused to vocalizing anything more than simple grunts.

"Where did my father go?"

The doctor didn't have an answer. He gave me a look of pity and informed me my clothes were folded on the counter beside my bed if I wanted to get dressed. I stared after him as he left the room, fighting the panic that swelled in my gut.

And that is how I came to worship the smelly Tunnel Snakes jacket I'd been bestowed with by my (then) arch enemy. I sat in my lonely hospital cot, surrounded by comatose patients, hugging it tightly to my frail body and inhaling its smoky, acrid scent. It reminded me of home, even if the memories it invoked were unpleasant. At least it made me think of pointless teenage bickering and not the battered, bloodied corpse of my father's friend, Jonas. That image would haunt my nights for many weeks after.

I ventured out of the clinic mid-evening, finally ready to accept the reality of my situation. I could see clearly again, though my vision's never been stellar – unfortunately, I'd forgotten to grab my reading glasses – and what I saw startled me.

Imagine a palace, with towers varying in height and shapes. Victorian, perhaps, but not quite as Gothic. That was my first impression of Megaton. Slabs of decrepit, rusty metal were pieced together, skeletons of vehicles and things I didn't recognize were arranged to create an environment that could shelter and inhabit a community of people. It amazed me to see people milling around in the filth when I'd been so spoiled by the organization and cleanliness of Vault Tech society. The town was domed by slates of steel and other metals, but they were nothing like the thick, guarded walls of the vault. My mind ran off calculating the incomprehensible human effort it must have taken to build this place. So awestruck I didn't notice Megaton's sheriff approaching me until he cleared his throat and I almost fell off the railing I'd been leaning against.

"Looks like you're feeling better. How are you doing?"

I hesitated before replying, trying to formulate the minimal amount of words needed to answer his question.

"Fine." Just one, easy word. It occurred to me belatedly that Simms probably still considered me a potential sociopath killer, so I followed my curt response with the same query I'd passed by Doc Church, though spun differently.

"I'm looking for my father. Has a scientist come through here?"

No, apparently the sheriff was far too busy to keep tabs of visitors. That struck me as odd, but I took his advice and navigated up the creaky planks to Moriarty's Saloon for more helpful information. There I learned more than I thought I would – that humans could survive chronic exposure to radioactivity, that beer tasted terrible, and that Colin Moriarty was ten kinds of an asshole.

One thing at a time, though. My first exposure to ghouls is definitely worth noting and I shall spend more time talking about Gob than Moriarty or his awful tap.

If I was prone to shrieking, which I am most decidedly not, I probably would have blown the top of my skull off. But I'd already exceeded my quota for screaming that day, so instead I stood frozen, blinking rapidly at the creature – man – behind the bar counter. We watched each other, and honestly I think we were both afraid. I didn't know what he was and he didn't know _who_ I was. He spoke first, with a gritty voice that echoed in my bones.

"Can I get you anything, smoothskin?"

_Smoothskin._ Well, I understood why I'd get a nickname like that, since he looked like a living model out of my father's anatomy textbooks. I could name each of the muscles in his forearms that flexed when he moved to scrub a glass mug, completely visible to the naked eye. It was disconcerting to _me,_ but my scientific training took over and before I realized what I was doing, I had settled on a stool and started throwing a barrage of questions at him. What did he call his condition? Were there many out there like him? Did it hurt? Were there any perks? I talked more with Gob than I'd said in the entire past week. Locating my father still held the highest priority in my mind, but the ghoul was a welcome distraction. He even let me sip some alcohol, which I sprayed onto the counter and grimaced at. (Later I would discover that, rumor had it, Moriarity urinated in his still.)

My youth and genuine distress seemed to endear me to half the saloon. It wasn't long before Colin Moriarty, the saloon's very namesake, sat down beside me and introduced himself as Megaton's "real" authority. Skeptical, but not one to miss an opportunity, I asked him – I'm sure you know by now, – if he'd seen my father.

Coincidence is something I've encountered now and again; usually I can explain away how two seemingly unrelated things connect. But I cannot, for the life of me, wrap my mind around the idea that not only had Moriarity interacted directly with my father, they'd _met_ before. Outside the vault.

From a young age we are told this: Born in the vault, die in the vault. The knowledge of being lied to by my own father sank heavily in my stomach. It was easier to brand Colin the liar, but it made too much sense. There were hints, all along, that we didn't belong there – only now could I string them together and weave an answer.

The information overwhelmed me in a negative way – my epilepsy is mild, highly manageable and usually, if I have a seizure, it lasts just seconds. This fit lasted ten minutes and consisted of me, out cold, occasionally twitching "_like I took Jet_," or so I'm told. Afterward, Gob confided to me he thought Moriarity had done something to me and almost ran to get the sheriff. _I_ told him he still ought to grab Simms and charge the Irishman with extortion. One hundred caps to tell me where my father went? Unbelievable. We used bottle caps in the vault, too, so I knew their value. Colin wanted an absurd sum that I didn't have.

That is when I observed a sense of guilt in my new friend. Years of fading into the background and watching, rather than doing, has developed a remarkably perceptive trait in me. I read people well. I saw not just guilt in Gob, but fear – was he still afraid of me? He'd pleaded earlier to not be struck, which bemused me. I came to the conclusion he must be abused... by Moriarity, probably.

"Gob," I started, wincing when he flinched away, as if he knew what I would ask. "Do _you_ know anything about my father?"

The ghoul scanned the room for any eavesdroppers, namely the saloon's manager, and lowered his raspy voice to a whisper.

"Moriarity might kill me if I tell you what I know," he admitted. Unfortunately, that was the truth, and I knew it. From what I'd gleaned about Moriarity through Gob, he beat the everloving crap out of anybody who defied him and would never win a popularity contest if Megaton hosted one. If I'd been any less selfish at that point in my life I would have patted Gob's arm and told him not to worry about it. But I was young, afraid, and lost. I was used to receiving special attention and exemptions because of my disabilities. I made most of my biggest mistakes in Megaton due to simple, utter naivety.

"Please." It was all I needed to say. Gob looked at me through those sad, tired eyes and found the compassion in his heart that I couldn't find in mine. He relayed to me what he'd overheard of the conversation between Moriarity and my father, and I programmed each morsel of information into my PipBoy, unaware that for each tap of my fingers, Gob would be hit twice more. I never gave it any thought. I was too focused on the next step; preparing myself, pursuing the only family I had left. So concerned with my welfare, I never considered his.

That was the first regret.


	3. What I learned

Ahem. Sorry I've been on a hiatus - a lot of factors thrown together sucked the motivation to write from me. Got an Android phone, which made me less inclined to actually load up my PC, school is wrapping up and I'm spending a lot of time researching for college, and... gosh, I dunno. It really hasn't been a lack of time that's kept me from writing, but rather a lack of inspiration. Which is weird; I think about my stories a lot, make mental notes about what would be cool for a chapter or a new character concept. It just never gets put into words. Well, in any case, I'm going to go ahead and throw this chapter up. I had it ready for a while but hesitated to publish it without it being edited. Chapter 4 is already half-way written and my other story is in the works, too. Sorry for the delay, guys. xD

Lakritzwolf: Thanks! I know, Meg is definitely more 'anti-hero' than anything else, which is why her story is going to be very interesting to write. I want it to stay realistic to her character, which means we're in for a rough ride.

Lady NeverAfterNon: Lol. Yeaaaah, just got a tiny bit frustrated. I'm happy to see it's gone, though. And thanks. I don't think I can ever stop writing, but as evidence would have it, I am capable of taking long breaks xD

ShadowOcelot: Meep! I haven't talked to you in ages. I think we've both gotten into a funk where writing is concerned, since I haven't seen any updates from you, either. Hopefully I'll catch you on MSN sometime soon.

Mingulay: =) As am I! Shit's gettin' real in the Capitol Wasteland.

* * *

I used to think DeLoria was incredibly frustrating. Then I met Moira Brown.

She's certainly not as antagonistic as Butch (or at least not consciously – though I can't imagine why anybody would ask a cripple to frisk out a minefield) but she has the same general effect on people. When I'm within a ten foot radius of her I want to rip my hair out.

It took a lot of convincing to assure her I most definitely did _not_ want to be her lab rat. In fact, I added somewhere in my argument that it probably was ethically ambiguous to let _anybody_ take the sort of risks she spoke of. She didn't get the hint. So I explained to her that while a survival guide was a great idea (I most assuredly could have used one) the fact that she'd already sent innocent civilians to their deaths in the name of 'scientific research' sort of contradicted the point of her book. Of course, there's something to be said about the worth of trial and error – _I_just didn't want to be in the error.

Moira is also, unlike Butch, remarkably resourceful and even helpful in her own way; if I hadn't taken the time to sit through her nonsensical ramblings, you wouldn't be reading this now. She essentially gave me a lesson in Capital Wasteland 101: Watch out for Mirelurks! Molerats have a vicious bite. Raiders will chop you up and play frisbee with your vital organs if you give them the chance. Deathclaws? Well, try not to run into one, otherwise you're dead. Don't mind Boatflies, they're practically harmless, but be careful with ghouls – some are feral and want to eat you!

"Not like Gob?" I asked incredulously.

"Oh jeez, hah! No, not like him!" she confirmed.

In between her personal commentary and what I was fairly certain were words she'd created out of thin air, I absorbed everything she taught me. I needed to raise the odds of my survival, because I was already at a disadvantage, both physically and psychologically. While Megaton saw a girl brimming with curiosity and interest in the world, the Common House experienced a very different Meg – they saw a lost child who wept herself to sleep each night, afraid for herself and her father.

I've never claimed strength in body or spirit. The former I lacked, obviously, but a handicap doesn't necessarily dampen the soul. I, however, was predisposed to cynicism from an early age. I could offer nothing more than medical expertise, analytical skills and a doomsday attitude in those first few months of my displacement. Jericho (a colorful character who I will divulge on shortly) called me a 'clueless, pint-sized brainiac' and do you know – he was _right._For understanding very little of the world I dreaded to explore, I did a great deal of complaining about it. I can find hope in the chaos, now – there is a certain, savage kind of beauty to Apocalyptica, a wildness and a freedom that I never knew in the Vault, and would never have touched had my father not seen the same hope and been consumed by it.

I met Jericho at the Brass Lantern, which can be described as a less disgusting version of Moriarty's Saloon. Though smaller in size and menu, the Brass Lantern gave a homier feel and the beer did not taste like urine (actually, this I'm not sure of - I refused to try any after my previous experience.) There I could sit outside and nibble cautiously on my irradiated snacks, listening to the ongoings of Megaton and try to make sense of their gossip. Poor Lucy West seemed to be very torn up about something lately - and Mister Burke, just who was that creep? Jericho was at it again, smashing bottles at houses in the dead of night, drunk bastard!

I wasn't acquainted with melancholy Lucy West or the mysterious Mister Burke, but I happened to be aware that the man perched beside me was the infamous Jericho. How did I know? Only ten minutes before, he and Jenny Stahl had an altercation across the counter:

"Hey baby... I hear your diner ain't making the big bucks anymore. Maybe we can arrange somethin' to get you some more caps..."

"Jericho you're out of your mind! Go home!"

"Aw c'mon, just a little nookie..."

"I swear to god...! If you weren't a loyal customer I'd kill you myself!"

I'd been taught it was in bad taste to swear to God. I don't think my father was particularly religious, but my mother did have strong faith in a higher being. I'd also been taught that killing people was frowned upon as well, but I assumed her threat to be empty and remained seated - until Jericho opened his mouth once more and shoveled the last bit of dirt out of his hole.

"I bet you're fucking your brother, you fat fucking slut."

"Get out of here!" Jenny roared, and before I could blink she was pointing a pistol - a pistol! Where did it come from? - at Jericho, which was coincidentally, in my general direction.

"Aw shit!"

Jericho flew from his stool, and I latched onto him out of instinct. I'd seen enough guns aimed at me for a lifetime (how naive I was then - I truly believed I was out of those waters, that I would be safe as long as I kept quiet and respectful) and I already knew Jenny disliked me for my silence. She'd called me a 'fucking weirdo.' From that, I deduced she wasn't particularly fond of me.

So I held on for dear life, my bad leg hobbling for all it was worth while Jericho cussed me to hell, too busy putting distance between him at the Brass Lantern to shake me off, but apparently not too busy to inform me how aesthetically displeasing I was and what he hoped became of my mother. (I told him sometime afterwards of her actual fate, and he seemed contrite.)

I let go of him once I realized I was no longer in any immediate danger, and found myself staring over the edge of Megaton's haphazardly constructed railing, down at the atomic bomb that had made this town's existence possible. Jericho marched past me and disappeared inside his house, leaving a few more parting insults in his wake, and I simply stood in place as my mind, left at the bar, tried to catch up with my body's current location.

I refused to cry, because I saved those bouts of weakness for the evening - it was afternoon yet. But I did allow my trembling self to sit down and brood, because it was too tempting an option. I pitied and loathed myself all at the same time, for being stuck in such a terrible situation and for being a coward. I'd spent three days so far hiding in Megaton, consumed with fear for my father and fear for my own well-being. Obviously, the latter fear won out, because I was still here, denying the inevitable: I would never see my father again if I didn't actively seek him out. Maybe he would return to Megaton, maybe even return to the Vault looking for me! I had to grasp onto some thin strand of hope, even if I knew, deep down, how frayed that thread was. The likelihood of my father coming back to Megaton was slim - to the Vault, even slimmer. I listened to the holotape he'd left for me at least twenty times, as if it something might change. His voice soothed me but the message distressed me more; I slobbered over the screen of my PipBoy, screamed at it, told it how much I hated it, how much I missed him and asked it _why _he would leave _me_, his own flesh and blood. I burdened James Grey, I realized that. I wasn't the daughter I'm sure he would've wanted, nor could I offer the life he'd wished for. And though I barely understood romance, besides the animalistic attraction between man and woman, genetic coding to ensure survival and continuation of the human species, I never doubted my father's deep-seated love for Katherine. I didn't understand it, but I believed in it. And I'd robbed him of it. I'd replaced her, but I was sub-par. An unfair trade. A rip-off.

So I sat there, stewing in my thoughts, until I guess it occurred to me that I was practically dangling over a highly radioactive, dormant weapon of mass destruction. I scurried up and started towards the Commons, where I would resume mourning, but I was intercepted.

I saw Jericho standing on his porch, scowling at me as I approached, and instead of ignoring him and continuing on my way, I paused. I'd heard stories about him, about his past, and I'll be honest - they horrified me. But there was a _reason_Jericho wasn't booted out of Megaton or arrested or shot; he was Megaton's cavalry, a Wasteland survivor, a marksman. He knew things I didn't, that Moira didn't.

"What's your problem, anyway?" I asked. Social graces were, suffice it to say, not my forte. Luckily, Jericho didn't care, because _his_social graces were even worse.

"Look, kid, get the fuck out of my way. I don't like you Wasteland types." He took a swig from his flask, which made me nervous. Dealing with a drunk Jericho sounded like certain death from where I stood.

"I don't even know what that means," I explained patiently. "Tell me what it's like. The Wasteland. Outside of Megaton."

Jericho snorted and dropped his weight into a chair by his door. "I left all that behind me. There's nothing but bullshit out there. Killing... stealing... violence... I'm not that kind of guy anymore." I arched an eyebrow at this. He didn't appear much changed to me, and I told him so. The former raider laughed harshly.

"I've heard about you. A little goody two shoes from the Vault. You don't know nothin', kid."

"You're right," I agreed, rubbing my arm self-consciously. "I don't. That's why I'm asking. I'm looking for my father and-"

"I don't want to hear your fuckin' sobstory, kid. Just leave me the hell alone."

I almost did. It would have been easy to apologize and walk off, curl into my dirty cot and spend another day uselessly. But I was sick and tired of that. So instead, I replied, "...Got some smokes?" He looked at me funny. Then he chuckled.

"Yeah, sure kid. I do."

* * *

I can thank Butch DeLoria, now. In the end he _was _remarkably helpful to me. Years of observing his behavior and being subjecting to it gave me insight on how to act with Jericho. I was smart enough not to actually take a drag from the cigarette he lit for me - respiratory failure was the last thing I needed while trying to impress a snarky ex-Raider. I waved it around as I spoke, caught it between my teeth and used it, more or less, as a prop.

"Nice jacket," he commented as we lounged inside his awful-smelling house, 'shooting the shit,' by his terms. I only intended for a brief, enlightening chat, but I ended up staying there for a few hours. We learned a lot about each other, and he gained a begrudging respect for me and I him - the most important part of our conversation, however, was the end of it.

"So, you want to go out there and look for your old man. Sounds like a fucking suicide mission to me. You won't last a second," Jericho said, kicking his feet up on the table. I watched specks of mud fly from the soles of his boots.

"Probably not," I muttered. The words sounded morbid even to my ears, but when I spoke them, they didn't seem real. Admitting I would most likely soon die the minute I set foot out of Megaton was easier to say than to actually think about. "Do you ever consider leaving Megaton? I can't imagine you're happy here... unless you've always been this charming."

Jericho snorted. "You talk a whole lot like your old man, you know. Like you got a stick shoved up your shitpipe."

His remark caught me off-guard and I choked on my saliva. Yes, my father had an accent and yes, so did I - but Jericho's unique description of it struck me as stupidly hilarious. I spluttered nonsensically for a moment before regaining composure.

"My... shitpipe?" He was referring to my anal cavity, I supposed. I wiped a tear of mirth from my eyes and shook my head wearily. "If you say so."

"I do 'say so,'" Jericho responded, mocking my voice. "And listen to what else I'm gonna say, kid. You're right. I do miss the old days. I wanna get the fuck outta here, y'know? But what crew would take up an old Raider like me? Kids these days, got no respect." There was something in his expression that drew me into a straighter posture. Just what was he implying?

"I... can be very respectful," I ventured, debating whether I ought to pursue this. Jericho was a loose canon, but the appeal of having a body guard, hell, a friend (if you could call him that) was extraordinarily convincing. The risks of going _without_him far outweighed the risks of going with him.

He chuckled at me. "Well, I dunno, kid. Our styles don't mesh. And you're dead weight." I panicked. Was he rescinding his offer?

"I'll pay you," I blurted. "Whenever I get caps, they're yours."

"Keep your panties on, girlie." A light glinted in his eyes. "I'm not asking you to pay me... yet."

"So... is that a yes, then? Will you come with me to find the Galaxy News Station?"

"Don't fuckin' cream yourself, kid. I'll go with ya, alright, but the minute I find a better gang to bang with, you're on your own."

What a little fool I was.


	4. What I lost

Recruiting Jericho is not something I regret, although I can't say our experiences together were pleasant. This I attribute to three reasons:

One, I was unaccustomed to life in the Wastes and spent the majority of my travels with Jericho discovering horrors previously unknown to me. I associate him with those discoveries. Two, his less-than-stellar personality quickly became grating. Over time, I feared and hated him more than I trusted him.

Lastly, he left me to die.

But let's rewind to a point before I even left Megaton with Jericho – a lot happened in that day of preparation, including what I consider to be the second mistake I would torture myself endlessly for. Coincidentally, it, too, occurred in Moriarty's Saloon.

I ventured in, hoping to find and thank Gob again before I departed. I did find him, naturally, behind the counter; he ignored me.

"Gob?" I repeated, a crease forming in my brow as I surveyed his work, a spotless glass he continued to focus polishing, pointedly avoiding me. He stood hunched over, his face tilted at a bizarre (and surely uncomfortable) angle. I was confused. I was hurt.

"I... just wanted to thank you again for-"

"Sweetie, what are you buggin' Gob for? Haven't you done enough?" A honeyed voice came from across the bar, and my head swiveled to pinpoint its owner: Nova, the prostitute. We'd spoken briefly, and I'd decided I disliked her the moment she denied me the information I sought, all because of Moriarty. I had no idea what sort of leash Gob and Nova (and half of Megaton) were tethered with, what sort of power the Irishman held. He was not an Overseer; he wasn't even the sheriff. I couldn't comprehend why so many people considered him important.

"I haven't done anything at all," I countered. Nova's scoff gave me pause, and uncertainly, I glanced back at the cowering ghoul. ..._Had _I done something?

"You got what you wanted, princess," The redhead drawled, puffing a cloud of smoke in my direction. Distractedly, I diffused some of the wispy tendrils with my fingers and fixed Nova with a hard stare. "May as well stop wasting time here. Go find your daddy," she went on. "I doubt Gob will mind – he can expect to get shit-kicked by Moriarty into at least the next year. Maybe if you leave now, Moriarty will forget a little sooner, huh?"

I felt my heart drop into my stomach, then squeeze through the rest of my gastrointestinal tract until it became lodged near my gut. It also felt like someone had taken a steel bat and slammed it against the base of my skull – dark spots peppered my vision, announcing the onset of a migraine and possibly a blackout.

I wasn't stupid. Naïve most definitely, but not stupid; I understood perfectly Nova's meaning and why Gob refused to even look at me. I could see the swelling in his face - hard to discern without the skin, but through a trained medical eye, I recognized inflamed orbital muscle and buccal tissue damage. I'd done something selfish and terrible. I'd done _more_than enough.

It shames me to recall how the ghoul pleaded me to ask Moriarty directly, and how I dismissed that notion and bullied my dad's whereabouts from him with teary eyes and trembling lips. I never _meant_for Gob to be punished. I told this to Nova, feeling small and guilty and wretched.

"I'm so sorry," I whispered. Apologizing seemed pointless. I wanted to promise I could fix it, but I knew I couldn't – not right now, anyway. Possibly not ever. So I turned and headed for the door, clinging to my Tunnel Snake jacket as if I might extract a drop of comfort or reassurance from it. It still smelled like Butch, like smoke and sweat. My vault suit was filthy, but Moira had helped me plate it with reinforcing material, to defend against the elements and any dangers I might encounter. Might translated into "most certainly," but I appreciated her efforts to quell my growing trepidation. Unfortunately, the armored suit could not protect me from what happened next.

My hand was on the doorknob, turning – so close. Just five seconds more and I would have stepped out and unknowingly avoided the upcoming catastrophe. But fate had other plans, and I glimpsed Mr. Burke beckon me in the periphery of my vision. I froze.

"My my, you're eager to leave town, aren't you, little girl. I don't blame you."

Nineteen years old, I argued silently, wasn't little. However, standing at a staggering five foot one, I had no room to contradict him. Instead I frowned at the man in his fancy clothes and his suede hat, saying nothing. He gestured for me to join him, his hand waving impatiently, and finally I consented by shuffling closer to his chair, where he sat reclining like a god, surrounded by an aura so palpably arrogant I could grip it in my fist and squeeze - his fancy suit, beguiling smile and thin veneer of etiquette repulsed me. I could see through his facade without knowing his reputation among Megaton. He reminded me of a better mannered Almodovar. I never liked our Overseer.

"Cat got your tongue, girlie?" I declined to respond. I think my silence unnerved him, but he maintained his chillingly perfect composure. "No matter. I have a proposition for you - because you, like me, do not have any particular ties to this... dump." He paused, in case I might finally give any indication to actually comprehending what he was telling me. I didn't.

"And there are some who would like to see this town, this... eyesore, removed off the map. A clean-sweep, if you will. We can do that, you and I."

I was at a loss. What could I have said to him without feeling utterly ridiculous? "_No, no I'm terribly sorry, I don't fancy a massacre today-" _or maybe "_Oh, why not? All these kind people ever did was feed and shelter me anyway!" _There were no words available to convey exactly what I thought of Burke's proposition. It shocked me and sickened me and I'm not even sure I took him seriously at first. His beady eyes pinned me down, but when he glanced over at Gob, banging at his radio, the spell broke and I turned tail and ran.

The dry wind of the wasteland hit my face. Dust stung my cheeks. It was just a prank, right? I wasn't so sure. I did the only responsible thing to do - I went straight to authority and related the news.

"You're kidding me. Bastard had a sneaky look to him - knew I didn't like him." I nodded at Lucas in agreement. We were standing near Moira's shop. "Here, come with me, kid. Watch justice be served."

I wish I'd just waited behind.

No - I wish I'd handled the situation the way I would have now. It was a while before I had the confidence to operate independently and to make decisions on my own. I didn't consider myself an adult then. I was just a kid, but unlike the other wasteland children, I thought I deserved to be treated like one.

I think you know what happened.

I'll tell you anyway.

I watched Lucas Simms die. One minute he stood, protecting the town and doing what nobody else was brave to do - and then he was leading Burke away - and then he was a lifeless heap on the floor, drenched in his blood and my screams. It's funny, you know. I've killed and help killed a lot of people since Lucas was murdered, but I feel guiltier about his death, as if I had been the one to pull the trigger.

Burke pulled the trigger. I told myself that for hours, for days, for weeks. I still tell myself that. What do you believe? Did I kill him, or did Burke?

It doesn't matter. He's dead. Jericho and I left the same evening.


	5. What I found

Phew! Two updates so close to each other? Ladies and gentlemen, I think I've gotten my writing mojo back =)

Lakritzwolf: You know what? The way you worded your _review_ was simply lyrical. I loved all the paradoxes because they mirror how I write for Meg. Thanks for putting up with my lateness and all that. I'll try to get more of this story out - there are lots of little twists coming up.

Lucidique: *grins* Fawkes will be here soon. I'm deciding on how to introduce him... it'll probably be a few chapters yet. And I promise I'll be working on Fox/Hound... meep!

Anyway, on with the show. 

* * *

Lucas Simms had a son named Harden. I imagine he misses his father very much.

Again, I realized, I had become a hero and a villain all at once. I removed a dangerous and unpredictable criminal from Megaton, but I had also inadvertently gotten the sheriff killed. Moriarty would assume Simms' position and make the people of Megaton miserable, within his vice-like grip. How could one person, one girl do so much damage? It felt like everywhere I left, I left in ruins. And there was still the affair of Mr. Burke to be considered. He'd disappeared and nobody was brave enough to stop him; I could only hope Megaton knew now to be wary of any newcomers, no matter the depths of their wallets.

The wasteland can swallow you. You stand, alone, under the sky, even if someone is standing beside you – you are alone. Scorching sun, dead wind, dead earth. To see the structural remains of a decimated civilization scattered across the country like piles of bones, it changes you. You begin to hate yourself, and hate mankind. _We_ did this.

But I didn't do it. Neither did Jericho. I knew that. Still I felt unbridled hatred towards the both of us as I walked behind him, absorbing the heat and the sand and the death. We walked through Springvale, heading to the Super-Duper Mart that Moira had told me about. I wanted to stop and investigate the skeletons of houses, examine what life was like outside the Vault, before the war. But when I saw the skeletons of _people_, I changed my mind abruptly and followed the ex-raider in thoughtful silence.

xXx

I was tending to the wound in my thigh when Jericho came over bearing the gifts of medicine. I was surprised any were left in a store like this, especially being previously infested by raiders, but I was glad for it.

The firefight had taken approximately an hour. The raiders, versus Jericho and myself (if I even count) evolved into a bizarre form of guerrilla warfare. We sneaked behind empty shelves, hid under cash registers, popped out and sprayed bullets – well, Jericho did, anyway. I typed furiously at my PipBoy, double-checking my vitals and using its built-in radar to assist Jericho's precise aim.

"Over by the third register to the left," I whispered, crushing a half-broken laser pistol in my palm. My index finger wriggled uncomfortably around the trigger and I desperately wanted to toss the weapon and hide until the chaos was over. Jericho picked off the raiders like they were weeds to be plucked from the dirt, inconsequential and removed with minimal effort. But they were _people, _and it was my gut instinct to check each one and aid them if they could be helped.

When the coast was clear, I ran from Jericho and knelt next to the closest casualty, a woman whose head was shaved haphazardly, little tufts of hair sticking out like pigtails. Her breath rattled and her face was coated in phlegm and blood. Hesitantly, I wiped the thick mixture of fluids away and checked her pulse.

"Where were you hit?" I was unable to tell right away. I began to say something else, but bloody spittle sprayed over my lips and I blinked in shock.

"What the fuck are you doing? Get the fuck away from me you bitch!"

I began to backpedal, but I had already offended her. She evidently possessed enough remaining strength to lift her gun and shoot at me, because she did just that. Searing pain erupted through my leg, and I screamed silently, gawping like a landed bass (that's a fish – have you ever seen one before?) Jericho was at the scene in seconds – two gunshots later, the raider was dead.

He helped me to the building's restrooms, which had been redecorated with dirty mattresses. He sat me on one and told me to stay put.

Where was I going to go? China?

After he left, I tore some fabric of the bed sheet I was laid out on and fashioned a tourniquet about seven inches above my knee. I was terrified that she'd severed my femoral artery. Completely at Jericho's mercy, I waited, numbed by shock at the sight of my own blood. There was so much. _So much._

xXx

Don't look so worried. I didn't die. I'm here, and so are you. This story is beginning, and it's ending, and it's beginning all over again.

Jericho and I spent days navigating the treacherous terrain. He introduced me to the wasteland cuisine, and I shot my first boatfly. Unfortunately, the more I _needed_to trust him, the less I could. I woke up one night to a rough caress, and refused to speak to him until two days later. I would have left him for it, but my dignity was already in shambles and I could not survive without a guide. Our relationship soured quickly. It became a trade-off; he protected me and led me towards the GNR station while I quietly and reluctantly let him touch me in ways and places I'd never dreamed of letting anybody touch before.

I hated Jericho, but as we drew further away from Megaton, it became unclear who really held the power between us. The raider was addicted to supple female flesh and acted nearly desperate sometimes, but when I denied him adamantly, he wouldn't push. Perhaps, in the warped moral code that he followed, it was considered unethical to force oneself on a young woman if she protested enough. Don't get me wrong, I never pretended to enjoy his attentions – I simply lay still and kept my eyes to the sky during his fondling, shutting out the guttural noises he made while he found release.

One night, it went too far.

He'd been drinking.

The stench of alcohol hung heavy on his breath, hot against my neck, creeping down my spine with dancing fingers. "More," he whispered. I understood immediately, needed no explanation – he'd asked this of me before. I responded the same way I always did: I shook my head and gently shoved him back.

But he persisted. His hands bruised me. Clothes tore. My skin met the air, pale and exposed under the moon. I'm not sure what jerked me out of my sleepy, submissive coma; anger, fear, maybe both. Definitely both. Suddenly Jericho was no longer on top of me - our roles had reversed. I sat on him, knees digging into his chest, and my pistol was embedded deeply into his sweaty forehead. Blood rushed into my ears like crashing ocean waves, and my vision was spotty. He could've rolled me back over and had his way, but I suppose he was either too shocked or too ashamed to move a muscle.

"No more," I said. My voice had never sounded so strong.


	6. Before I met you

Short chapter is short. Sorry to everybody who keeps up with my little story, I constantly struggle with length. Hopefully as I get further into the plot I'll be able to elaborate more. I just had the brilliant (and belated) idea to start playing the game as I write each chapter, so once I catch up to where I'm at in this fic, I can write more detail and expand my chapters. Thanks to Lucidique and Shadow-Ocelot for making me realize what a good idea that is. xD

Also, Lucidique was my awesome beta-fish and if you like Fallout fanfiction then READ her stories, holy crow, they're awesome sauce.

Lakritzwolf: Oh no! My fanfictions are a health hazard! I ought to put a warning on them, then.

Lucidique and Shadow-Ocelot: Meh, you guys are the shizznit. Enough said.

To everybody who's alerted to this story, I hope you like it so far. Feel free to send me ideas or critique. I'll have the next chapter up relatively soon. 

* * *

Out of its own volition, my finger pulled back and squeezed the trigger.

There was a click, and a muffled shicking noise. The gun needed to be reloaded.

I'm not sure if I realized over the next few days that I could have killed him – _would _have, if it weren't for the empty bullet chamber of his 9mm. I'm not sure if he realized, either. We descended into the Farragut Metro Station, en route to the GNR headquarters, in our quietly efficient way; he handled combat, I patched him up, he helped me avoid booby traps. Occasionally he carried me where the terrain was filled with debris and rubble, too hard for me to navigate safely. Jericho was nothing short of a gentleman, - as gentlemanly as an ex-raider can be - but his chivalrous behavior put me on high alert rather than calming my suspicions. He might have left me in the tunnels and I'm sure I would've given up and crawled back to the surface – if a ghoul didn't find me first – and that would've been it. The end. But he stuck by my side, and I proved myself useful on several occasions.

The tunnels are like tombs. I didn't think anything could be worse than the endless expanse of desolation above the Vault, but the maze of metro passages sneak up on you. Every creak, every groan, every hitched breath is magnified in your head through an invisible, terrifying loudspeaker. The smell is dark, damp and putrid; it fills your lungs with rotting flesh and decay. The wasteland is blanketed in sky and dust – underground, it is encompassed in flickering lights and crumbled walls. I used my PipBoy to illuminate our path, plugging coordinates into its advanced GPS system so that we would not get lost. I encountered my first feral ghoul in the Farragut station. I knelt down to give me balance and a steady aim, while Jericho coached me on how to handle my laser weapon in a fight. After felling three of the monstrosities I felt a swell of pride and relief. I wasn't _completely _worthless. Since I am expertly familiar with the human anatomy and a quick study on technology and mechanisms, pairing me with a laser pistol was the smartest choice Jericho could have made for me.

I tested his patience often by investigating my kills to analyze the miracle of a decomposed yet functional homo sapiens. I've never been particularly squeamish; I got accustomed to the gore that inevitably finds you no matter where you are. These ghouls truly were feral, and my qualms with shooting something once human quickly disappeared. I had a handful of scratch and bite marks to show for my initial hesitation – I wasn't keen on acquiring any more.

I enjoyed discovering Pre-War junk and began to horde it. But when it became too much for me to carry, and Jericho refused to act as a pack mule, I reluctantly released my treasures and continued to silently follow my guide along the cramped corridors of the metro until we came to a chained gate that separated us from a group of ghouls that were very eager to get to the other side.

"Shit, that's a lot of shufflers. I ran out of frags – you got any bobby pins? We need to get through this gate."

Jericho paced back and forth, aiming his gun at the ghouls but refraining from firing – he didn't have a clear shot through the fence and ammo was precious. I watched him for a little bit before wandering into the back room, and straight towards the desk. There were not a whole lot of talents I had to offer, at least not then, but when it came to computers I definitely knew what I was doing. I liked to tinker with the Protectrons we found, bringing them to life and reprogramming them. We fed them tickets to escort us through the tunnels. It didn't take long for me to hack the mainframe and access the codes to the generators on the other side. An idea sprouted in my mind almost immediately – we didn't have any explosives, but if I overloaded the generators...

"Jericho," I called from the room. "Take three big steps back, and fire at one of those big metal boxes."

The ex-raider glanced over his shoulder at me with a skeptical look, then took a potshot. Moments later he was whooping and screaming and running back towards me as the entire area erupted into a fiery storm, blasting open the gate and flambeing the ghouls inside. I shielded my eyes from the white hot heat, but dutifully helped my companion bat out the small flames that caught on his clothing.

"That was fucking _sick!"_ Jericho guffawed. I smiled. We waited till the coast was clear and hauled ourselves further into the station.

xXx

I am just shy of five feet and two inches – in other words, incredibly short. But I have never felt smaller standing next to the fallen corpse of what the wasteland calls a "Super Mutant."

Or relieved.

I saw him before Jericho did. We were maneuvering around a huge pile of debris from the ceiling when I noticed a green, mountainous figure standing overhead, and I froze in my tracks. Jericho halted behind me and swore under his breath.

"It's a fuckin' Mutie," he hissed. "Kid, you better step back. Get down and use your little space gun like I told you to."

He pulled the assault rifle off his back and planted himself along the wall, training the gun at the Super Mutant's back. I was bursting with curiosity and fear but let Jericho work his magic; he opened fire and the green giant staggered forward, whirling around sluggishly and roaring garbled English at us. It took the entirety of five minutes to fell the mutant and the ghouls that had come running at the sound of gunshots. It seemed like an eternity before I could set my pistol down and examine the genetic oddity without fear of being mauled. I'd never seen a Super Mutant before – the scientist in me was fascinated by the complex manipulation of DNA that made this creature's existence possible. It wouldn't be later before my thoughts on Super Mutants changed; I pitied them, thought little of them, and I'm ashamed to say it was my opinion that the only good Super Mutant was a dead one.

But that was before I met _you, _Fawkes.


End file.
